


Steady On

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Seasickness, headcanon fic, light-hearted hurt/comfort, tw vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are tasked with guarding a chancellor as he sails from France to England. It's an easy enough mission-- but Aramis has an unfortunately good reason to resent it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady On

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm about 20,000 words into my next chapterfic, which to some of you is a drop in the bucket but to me is pretty impressive. But this week instead of working on it I've apparently decided to pop out this silly little headcanon fic. Poor Aramis. A while back I was writing about him and, as I had a stomachache, decided that he did too-- and my headcanon for him being a pukey little thing has just developed from there. This is probably first season Aramis, by the way, back when we all weren't so mad at him.

“Calais,” Aramis spat, the name like a curse on his lips as he glared at the port before them.

D'Artagnan frowned as he slid from his horse, handing the reins off to the stable boy. “Problem with Calais?”

“Not as such,” Porthos replied. Aramis appreciated the intervention; he himself was too busy staring out across the Strait with something that he hoped look like grim determination, and not like the anxiety he actually felt.

“Problem-- with England?” d'Artagnan tried again.

“Problem with getting there,” Athos replied. “Ever heard of _le mal de mer_?”

“ _Mal de mer_? You get seasick, Aramis?”

“You say seasick, I say sodomized by the Triton of King Neptune himself.”

“Thanks for that image,” Porthos remarked, as he, Athos, and d'Artagnan began to board the ship. Aramis shuffled haplessly behind. Before they could get as far as announcing themselves to the ship's captain, Porthos steered him slightly sideways and grabbed his hand.

“Here.”

Aramis glanced down curiously at his palm, into which Porthos had pressed a short length of twine.

“Tie your hair up,” Porthos said calmly, by way of explanation. Aramis scowled. He understood the implication clear as day, and sorely wanted to protest-- but it would be necessary, and they both knew it. Trying not to pout, he fastened his hair at the back of his neck.

Thus arranged, he joined the others further down the deck, where they were introducing themselves to the unimpressed captain. He seemed to care as little for the courtesy as did Aramis himself. Athos was explaining what their security formation would look like-- he and d'Artagnan below deck, guarding the chancellor in his quarters; Porthos and Aramis on deck, keeping watch from there. But the captain was frowning openly. “As I've said, I see no need for your presence,” he said coldly. “My men are trustworthy, and are perfectly capable of seeing to the chancellor without _external_ assistance.”

“Nevertheless,” Athos said mildly, “here we are.”

There they were indeed, and there was just about the last place on earth that Aramis wanted to be.

It was the right call, he knew, for Athos to put him on deck. Fresh air would prove more salutary than would the stuffy air below-- not to mention that he would have an entire sea into which he could empty his stomach, rather than some embarrassing little mop bucket. But this charity was lost on him at present. All he wanted to do was curl up somewhere quiet, far from prying eyes, and try to sleep away the long hours it would take to cross to England.

But this was hardly feasible, or honorable. So once they were underway, Aramis staunchly set himself to patrolling, ignoring the tremors that spread up his legs and the niggling _wrongness_ that swelled in his belly. It worked, for a while. He and Porthos looped the deck of the ship, learning the faces of the crew, keeping track of their apparent duties and alliances. But Porthos outpaced him before long. Aramis fell from a march down to a pace down to a shuffle, until he was nearly dragging his feet, watching over the same short span of deck, within which nothing of note was occurring. His heart pounded, lungs hitching. He discovered with dismay France had become nothing more than an outline against the horizon.

The waves pounded. The ship heaved.

His shaking grew gradually worse, overtaking him bit by bit until his legs got so weak he was forced to sit down on a little bench, hidden behind the swell of the cabin entrance. He was _dripping_ sweat by now, a cold itchy breed of it. Feeling dreadful and nothing short of disgusting, Aramis wrapped his arms around his wretched stomach and tried to reason how much longer they had til England.

The answer fell far short of comforting. Two hours down without succumbing was not much of a triumph considering they had at least seven or eight hours left to go. The day was young. The day was young and he was miserable and nauseous and where the fuck was Porthos, because he really just needed a friendly face right about now.

In the end it was another ten or twenty minutes before Porthos appeared. He plopped down besides Aramis with smile, looking infuriatingly well and at ease; Aramis managed to forgive him, though, when he reached over and favored Aramis' knee with a fond, supportive squeeze. “How're you holdin' up?”

The sad truth was that he was not-- that sitting made him sicker than standing, and not dissolving into hysterics was becoming a legitimate chore-- but Aramis lacked the energy necessary to explain this fully. Instead he moaned, mouth firmly shut.

“Everything checks out, terms o'security. Dunno if that should make you feel better 'cause we really aren't needed-- or worse, 'cause we really weren't needed.”

There wasn't much that could make him feel worse at the moment. Then again, nothing would probably make him feel better, either. He shrugged.

Porthos flashed another smile at his lack of response, though this one was a little softer, more sympathetic. “Anythin' I can do?”

“Mm. Stay,” Aramis rasped. Porthos nodded. They passed a few minutes in silence, but despite the comfort that Aramis inarguably took from Porthos' presence, it wasn't actually helping in any tangible way. If anything, being tucked up in his corner was making him sicker.

Porthos sensed it as well. Before long, he cleared his throat, leaned in, and muttered hesitantly, “d'you think you should just-- get it over with?”

Did he think so? Yes, he did.

Was he going to? No, not likely. Aramis wasn't sure what pride there was to be found in waiting until the very last minute, but there was just something too pathetic in giving in, in hurrying the process along.

“No,” he croaked.

Porthos didn't take kindly to the answer.

“'m just sayin'. Just-- y'know-- _stick a finger in it_ an' you'll feel be much better off. Beats waitin', dunnit?”

Aramis grunted his displeasure, hunkering down further next to Porthos, on whom he was unashamedly leaning by now.

“Hm. Suite yourself,” Porthos replied.

But in the end he was, as in most things, correct.

It happened in a flash. The turbulence in Aramis' stomach swelled up from something unpleasant and eventual to something _horrible_ and _immanent_ , _going-to-happen-right-fucking-now_ , and Aramis startled up like a frightened bird and lunged forward for the haven of the railings and--

He didn't even sort of make it.

That wasn't even close to what happened.

What happened was that Aramis bent over then and there and threw up spectacularly, all over Porthos' boots.

 _Shit_ , he opened his mouth to say-- and instead, was sick again.

Porthos-- gracious, patient, _marvelous_ Porthos-- gave only a cursory grunt of dismay before crouching down by Aramis' side and rubbing slow circles at the small of his back with one hand. With the other, he pushed the sweaty bangs out of Aramis' eyes.

“Ain'cha glad you tied your hair back now?” he teased. Aramis let out a pitiful little laugh that was definitely nowhere near being a sob. Bless Porthos. Bless him, among many other reasons, for mentioning the thing he'd managed to do, as opposed to the thing he'd so staunchly refused.

“You done?”

He wasn't, in fact, and tried to indicate as much without speaking. Porthos rolled his eyes a bit, but in the next moment he was shepherding him to the edge of the ship, saving him from the humiliation of crawling there himself.

“Porth's,” Aramis moaned, quite beyond caring what he sounded like at this point. “Mmunnabe sick. Mm'gunna--”

“Dunno how much you can have left,” Porthos grumbled, but fixed his hands around Aramis' waist and braced him as he shoved his head over the edge.

“Mrrrph,” Aramis commented, and vomited extravagantly into the water below. “I hate-- I hate-- boats,” he slurred, between heaves. “Hate 'em. Hate 'em.”

“I know.”

“I fucked up-- your boots.”

“I know. You can clean 'em once we're back on dry land.”

“Dry land,” Aramis repeated dreamily, then gagged. Porthos rubbed his back with one hand as he threw up again-- then again, then again, then a little bit more.

Finished for the moment, Aramis couldn't hold back a miserable whimper. He went boneless, letting Porthos manhandle him back from the rails and settle him on a nearby crate. Then he dropped his head into his hands.

“World's movin',” he mumbled, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“No, it ain't,” Porthos said firmly.

“'s movin',” Aramis whimpered, too tired to fight back the shiver.

“It's not. It's not. Hey, don't keep your head down,” Porthos insisted, as Aramis hunched over further. “Aramis-- Aramis, put your head up. Try to look at the horizon, all right?”

“Mm. I can't.”

Rough, familiar fingers brushed his chin, and then Porthos was lifting his face to the open air. “I know you want to curl up and die, _mon ami_ , but this'll help if you give it the chance. C'mon. Horizon.”

“Horizon,” Aramis echoed dully, and forced his eyes open.

Beyond the edge of the ship, where the sea met the sky, the long, dark strip of blues blending bobbed unsteadily; France and England alike were no more than vague, distant ghosts, and between them: _water_. Aramis whimpered. The world was collapsing, that was just the crux of it; there was nothing to take hold of anymore, and already he could feel the bile rising eagerly in his throat.

“ _Shh_ ,” Porthos soothed. “Don't look away, Ar. We're movin'; it's not. It is _not_ movin'. Try to believe that.”

Aramis probably should have been embarrassed by now, the way that Porthos was holding him by the shoulders, thumbs working against the muscles underneath. But he wasn't. Porthos was quite literally the last thing left to cling to, and he'd be damned if he'd let that go for something as petty as _dignity_. He let out a little bleat, shimmied up against him.

“It's not movin',” Porthos murmured again, calmly--

And all at once, Aramis' eyes agreed.

The world settled.

He choked out a sigh of relief and collapsed back against Porthos' sturdy form, received a ruffle of his hair for the effort. “Better?” Porthos rumbled.

“Mm,” Aramis replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the blessedly-still horizon. It wasn't moving; they were. He still felt a bit nauseated by the heave-ho of the waves beneath them, but the sensation of motion was less universal now, less overwhelming, less absolute. Utterly spent, Aramis sought Porthos' hand and squeezed it with feeling.

“You think you're gonna be all right now?” Porthos asked, after a few lovely minutes of sitting thus, silently.

“Well at the very least, I don't feel like crying anymore.”

Porthos chuckled. “Not t'be indelicate, but tears are a mite easier t'clean than the stuff that I'm worryin' about.”

Aramis blew out a huff of laughter. In a weird, unexpected way, the sea was actually sort of pretty, now that he gave it a chance. “I feel better,” he breathed, and it wasn't a lie. “I mean, I don't think I'm going to eat for a week, but I think everything else is going to stay where it's meant to.”

“Good,” Porthos grunted. “Then, 'smuch as I don't really mind bein' the back to your chair, I'd like to do at least a bit of patrollin'. Seein' as we're on patrol, an' all. Also needa see t'your _evidence_ , before somebody else-- oh.”

“What _oh_?” Still moving with caution, Aramis turned slowly to see what Porthos was seeing. A short span away, the deck was filthy with a spray of sick. And, standing before it, looking personally outraged: the captain of the ship.

A moment later, he'd caught their eyes. Aramis pushed dutifully to his feet as the man stalked the short span over to them. A few of the crew also assembled.

The captain glared back at the mess for a moment, then tuned to the group around him. “Would anybody like to tell me,” he began, dangerously slow, “who _exactly_ could not manage to keep his stomach-- _nor to empty it overboard_?”

It wasn't a difficult thing to reason; the captain knew, and Aramis knew that he knew. He and Porthos were the only new faces on deck. And between the two of them-- Porthos with his healthy, hardy visage, and Aramis himself, colorless, drenched, and trembling still-- it was hardly a difficult guess.

“Well?”

Aramis didn't much care for this captain, and hardly put a stake in his opinions of them; nevertheless he was tired and achy and wanted precisely nobody to give him any grief today. He opened his mouth to reply--

“Sorry, sir,” Porthos said, cutting him off.

Aramis blinked.

“Not, eh, quite used to the waves yet,” Porthos added, giving his belly a sheepish pat.

The captain moved closer, though he seemed to abort his last step as he perceived the full extent of Porthos' height and breadth. “You seem to be feeling better now, son.”

“Much better now, sir.”

“Got it all out, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got a bit on your boots.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Musketeers,” the captain drawled, eyeing Porthos' pauldron. “As I said, I saw no need for your regiment's presence onboard, but your captain insisted. He assured me there'd be no trouble.”

“Wasn't tryin' to cause trouble,” Porthos replied, though Aramis could see him giving up a bit of his attitude as it became clear he was representing the garrison. “Truly, sir, I just-- don't do much sailin'. Hit me all at once, an' I couldn't get to the rails in time. Gonna clean it up now.”

And then something funny happened. The captain scanned Porthos critically, then Aramis, then Porthos once more-- and _smiled_ , privately but not at all meanly. “See that you do. Give the rest of the deck a go, while you're at it.” And with that, the captain walked away.

“Huh,” was Porthos' only remark.

Aramis frowned. “I was going to say that you'd earned an admirer, but that's an odd way to show it.”

“Pretty sure lyin's not supposed t'be rewarded, even if everyone's in on it.”

“I don't like him,” Aramis declared, finding he'd temporarily forgotten his self-imposed declaration that he was going to feel nothing but self-pity for the duration of the voyage. “Covering for an indisposed friend is the height of honor.”

“Oh, go on, then,” Porthos grumbled, but Aramis was surprised and pleased to see that he was genuinely flustered by the compliment. Fondness swelled in Aramis' chest. Truly honorable men-- men such as Porthos-- had such a hard time reminding themselves of their own honor, and that was a shame.

“You have my admiration,” Aramis told him, graciously-- then, a bit less enthusiastically, added, “and I shall swab the deck for our pirate overlord.”

Porthos' mouth quirked with laughter. “Mm. Right. On the other hand, I'll swab the deck, you try to rest, and we'll just say you owe me a big one, yeah?”

“Bless you,” Aramis replied, utterly without irony. Porthos shook his head and went off in search of a mop, while Aramis located the isolated nook that he could and curled up inside, exhaustion and gratitude overpowering the lingering sickness and allowing him to drift off to sleep.

He closed his eyes with the sun still climbing. But it was dusky and colder as Porthos shook him awake by the shoulder and whispered, “Aramis, hey-- got something t'show you.”

Aramis moaned. He blinked the grit from his eyes and let Porthos haul him to his feet and direct his gaze off to one side of the ship.

There, the tiny, white form that had beckoned them from the horizon all day had finally coalesced into an actual port, cliffs swelling up on either side of it.

“England,” Porthos said, and clapped him on the back.

“Oh, thank _Christ_.”

The last half hour of the crossing passed with merciful speed; Aramis joined Porthos on one last patrol, then stood at the railings, watching as Dover grew in size and detail until it finally swallowed them up. Then, at last: the call to disembark.

“Oh, Lord. Oh, land,” Aramis huffed, as his boots took him off the edge of the ramp. A genuine gratitude swept over him, and he seized his crucifix and kissed it tenderly. “I am never, ever, stepping foot on a boat again, ever.”

“Mmhm. Til tomorrow,” Porthos remarked, as they stepped to the side to await the others.

“No. I shan't. Not doing it.” He felt better, sure, and thankful it was over; nevertheless he was _drained_ \-- fatigued despite his overlong nap and emotionally spent from the stress of it all.

“This is an island, you realize. Boat's sorta the only way off.”

“Then I'm never leaving. I'll learn English. Always found it a lovely language.”

“That's funny, 'cause last time you mentioned it, it was _the only tongue uglier than German_.”

“It's gorgeous. I hear the food's lovely, too.”

“Well, you ain't findin' out, cause you are fastin' from now til France.”

Aramis moaned and swayed in a little, only to be firmly pushed back. “If you think I'm huggin' you with breath like that, you got another thing comin',” Porthos remarked. Nevertheless, when Aramis' head remained bowed, a hand settled atop it, thumb brushing against his scalp.

“And how did our favorite sailor fare?”

Aramis groaned. Without looking, he could still see the good-humored teasing on Athos' face, not to mention the curiosity on d'Artagnan's.

“Better than last time,” Porthos reported. “But he's hatched an emigration plot now, so's to _never set foot on a boat again, ever_.”

“Pity. We shall miss you, Aramis.”

“Chancellor all set?” Porthos asked, still rubbing Aramis' head.

“His people have collected him. All we've left to do is find our lodgings for the night.”

Heartened by the thought of a warm bed, Aramis managed to pull away.

Athos and Porthos stepped ahead for a moment, filling each other in on the rather dull details of their respective watches; Aramis lagged behind, too tired to care, but found it in him to smile as d'Artagnan fell in step with him.

“Hey.”

“How are you doing?”

“All right,” Aramis replied, breathily. D'Artagnan smirked and leaned closer.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he whispered, conspiratorially, “I don't think Athos was terribly comfortable on the trip, either.”

“No?”

“Definitely not. Spent the first half pale as death and sweating like he'd run the length from France.”

This was news. “Hm. I suppose I never really had the wherewithal to notice anyone else's reactions.”

“I mean, he didn't actually get sick-- but there were definitely a few times I think he would've liked to.”

“You know,” Aramis commented, “that actually does make me feel a bit better, d'Artagnan. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. No, seriously, don't mention it,” d'Artagnan clarified, “he'll kill me.”

Aramis swore that he would not. But as they quickened their pace to catch the others up, the full extent of Athos' actions became clear to him. Athos should have been out on deck too. He should have been breathing the fresh air, but not only had he given that privilege to Aramis, he'd sacrificed his own position twice over so that Aramis could have Porthos at his side.

It wouldn't do to mention it. Yet, as the four of them merged into one unified group, he caught Athos' eyes and smiled, hoping his gratitude was clear.

And he was grateful. It was not gratitude just to be on land again, but to the friends who'd stood by him through his messy, miserable, _distasteful_ ordeal. Aramis relaxed as he blended into their midst.

“This is the inn the captain mentioned,” Athos remarked, as they came upon a building.

“Right, then,” d'Artagnan replied, “who speaks English?”

“All right?” And that was Porthos, who spoke to him quietly while pressing a hand to his back.

Aramis sighed, though not unhappily. “I'm good,” he replied, and leaned into Porthos' hand-- which was warm and solid and _steady_.

**Author's Note:**

> I strove, as always, for historical and geographical accuracy here, but apologize for any mistakes that were made. In the first book, d'Artagnan actually does cross to England from the port of Calais; he does so overnight, so I'm not exactly sure how long it took, but it would seem to be a good portion of time. Wiki was unhelpful here. It was, however, helpful in the knowledge that on a clear day, one can actually see Dover from Calais, so although it would have been much more dramatic to have France “disappear” and England “appear”, the truth is that both would have been vaguely visible at all times.


End file.
